terra north/nord is published out of the office of the Poet Laureate of the City of Greater Sudbury. We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Mayor and Council of the City of Greater Sudbury and the Greater Sudbury Public Library. Copyright of the poems included in this issue remains with their authors.

PUBLICATION NOTES

“This issue of Terra North is a compilation of poems from the Greater Sudbury Public Library’s open mic night. Every second Thursday of each month local writers gather to share poetry and prose.

When I first started attending the open mic nights at the library, I sat at the back and listened for the first two months. Other writers would talk with me on occasion. They were kind, respectful and encouraging, and each month I gained confidence. Eventually, I started to read my own poems. Two years later, I became the Poet Laureate of Greater Sudbury.

Throughout the past two years, the open mic has invited special guests and local authors to come and read which are highlighted in this issue. There are also pieces that reflect the landscape of the city, and world events. Other pieces reflect the weather or a holiday but all of the poems spoke to me in one way or another and that’s why I have included them.

I hope you enjoy these reflections of an open mic and I hope you come and join us sometime and become part of the community, part of the story.”

-Tom Leduc Poet Laureate 2014-2015

January 2016 Edition

Lynda Lesny is a resident of Sudbury. Her poetry has appeared most recently in The Pendle War Poetry Anthology 2013, published in the U.K., and in Sulphur IV, the literary journal published by Laurentian University. In December of 2013, she presented her poem "Christmas Oranges" in a broadcast on CBC Radio's Point's North. Besides compiling her work for the publication of her first book of poems she continues to scribble and to participate in the Greater Sudbury Public Library monthly Open Mic sessions.

Inspiration for Wind Under Wings:

This poem was inspired by a walk that I took recently to Ramsey Lake. The day and the water were peaceful; the clouds in the sky were taking their time to pass overhead. Hovering just below them, almost motionless, was a lone seagull. How I wished I could do that! - Lynda

Lynda Lesny

Wind Under Wings

The sky holds up the bird A gull Wings spread Co-operating with the wind. Curious clouds Look on Casually At the impersonator in their midst. There are moments when the gull Just seems to hang there Suspended in belief. The fear of falling: That comes from me Stuck on the ground Looking up Me And my history Of being gravity's pawn.

Circling over deep water Water trying to be blue Like the sky The bird toys with the wind Seemingly without fear Without hesitation. The fear of deep water Surface reflective Deceptive The above hiding the below: That comes from me Safe on the ground Me And my memory Of someone holding my head under water.

I cannot fly. I cannot swim. I can only dream And imagine And envy Wind under wings Soaring high over deep water Water reflecting sky.

Irene Golas has been publishing haiku and tanka poetry since 2005. In 2012, she and Ignatius Fay published Breccia, a collection of their new and selected haiku and related Japanese poetic forms. Irene is a member of the Sudbury Writers' Guild.

Irene Golas

Mother in the Garden

Sometimes I see you in the garden leaning on your hoe. I hear your voice as you survey the cabbage and potatoes. Leaning on your hoe, you ask the familiar question as you survey the cabbage and potatoes. Will we have enough for winter? You ask the familiar question for which there is no answer, no reassurance. Will we have enough for winter? You see a dark, empty cellar. There is no answer. No reassurance. Times are better now. Still you see a dark, empty cellar, taste the watery soup.

Times are better now - grocery shelves overflow with food. No need to eat watery soup, no need to hoard anything. Grocery shelves overflow with food, but you insist hard times will return. I, too, begin to hoard everything, begin to grow more than I need. You insist hard times will return. I hear your voice, begin to grown more than I need. Sometimes I hear your voice in the garden.

Vera Constantineau of Copper Cliff writes poetry and short fiction. Her work has appeared in The Antigonish Review, Modern Haiku, Acorn Haiku Journal and bottle rockets. She is past president and a member of the Sudbury Writers' Guild

Vera Constantineau

Christmas parade our television picture turns to snow counting the presents our three year old repeats one two one two ... game on a wrapped basketball rolls from the gift pile Christmas morning the dog howls to jingle bells snow falls outside family Christmas the table not extended this year it's just us

Chris Nash is a retired psychologist. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in Canadian and British journals. Her novel, Temperance Lloyd: Hanged for Witchcraft was published in 2012. She is now working to bring the Indie Cinema to Downtown Sudbury.

Chris Nash

Lines In the sand smudged by The sliding feet of laughing tug- of-war combatants Lines In the sand drawn by Politicians who always Know they will redraw. Lines That we cross, smiling Our intent to harm, to hurt Those known or unknown. Lines Drawn from our different World, disrespecting gods we've Chosen not to share. Les lignes On di "J'suis Charlie" Mais enfin "J'suis au Coeur Une Canadienne"

Tom Leduc

Old Girlfriend

In the end there was only a bag of Q-tips, the ones we had bought together in bulk. Every time I reached for one, I would think of her, curled up on the couch, or asleep in our bed. Her long dark ringlets like naked tree branches, on snow white sheets. She smelled of vanilla. Liked to wear boxers and walk topless around the kitchen, complain about the humidity. Last night, I reached for the last Q-tip and wondered, would I wipe away her memory? Could this last touch of softness clear away the pain she left me with? I roll the Q-tip around in my fingers, press it to my cheek, the slip it into my pocket. Upstairs in the bedroom, I tell my wife we need more Q-tips, then slip the one from my pocket into a small box on my dresser.

Tom Leduc, a working-man's poet, is the 3rd Greater Sudbury Poet Laureate. Tom works for Wajax Industrial Components by day and has been developing his writing and poetry in his spare time over the past seven years. He started submitting his work to local publishers in recent years and in 2012 won the Vale Living with Lakes Centre poetry contest with his poem "My Northern Lake." Tom is also a member of the Sudbury Writers' Guild.

Ashley Laframboise

September This time comes only once a year, like every day- once in eternity. How to make the most of the fleeting fingers of sunlight softly stretched across so many leaves, golden and glowing, preparing to let go of the blood that sustains them? How do I let go of you? I've always loved autumn; there is a preciousness to the fading light; there is a tenderness to the courage it takes to let go of the one thing we believe keeps us alive- to the one thing that would kill us if we held on. I've heard before that a woman hits her prime at twenty-one, but I, at twenty-nine, feel that my most beautiful days have yet to come-

Ashley Laframboise is an Espanola born, Laurentian University educated poet, ESL instructor, and lover of the arts. She hopes to make something beautiful grow from pain, and is deeply moved and inspired by matters of the heart. Having spent a year studying Expressive Arts Therapy at Langara College in Vancouver, Ashley wishes to connect with people through poetry--to touch something honest and perhaps painful--all the while providing comfort in the knowledge that regardless of how much we may suffer, we are never truly alone. Like her Facebook page at Moonring: Ashley Laframboise Poetry and Prose, or visit her poetry blog: moonring.wordpress.com for more poems.

that I will never be quite so lovely as I might be in those sacred moments before turning white, like the snow, and even then, that has its own beauty. I hope someone will be there to behold it. September holds within her the wisdom of all previous seasons-she knows the secrets of the land, the plants, and the animals- but keeps silent so as not to divulge the mystery of what makes transition so heartbreakingly beautiful.

Let's part ways at the hazelnut tree, where I will gather what I need for the long winter ahead, and replace my harvest with a prayer of thanks for another year of challenges and lessons,

supporting me on my way, and leave the rest behind for the squirrels and the Mother who does not weep at the death of her babies- she takes them back into her arms, and rocks them back to sleep. It wasn't the right time, perhaps. It wasn't meant to be. Hold me, Mother, as I let go in my own clumsy way, though I may sob the whole time. I am not a graceful leaf, but a human being, with very human desires and dreams in my little human heart. I offer it to you, now- soft and beating, more fearful than the peaceful leaves preparing for their fall, but every bit as crimson.

Doyali Islam

Conversation with a bouncer (at raven & republic, North Bay) what you need, he says as I tap my smoke on the patio between sets, is a hanging basket. line it with straw, or coir. choose an everbearing variety, remembering to water it twice daily. his ears keen at the sound of a sparrow, and I conceal surprise behind my coke. imagine his dark hands dealing out dark soil, lifting tender roots into a pot. imagine his tattooed arm pouring clear water. imagine his simple piety: the hard cross of arms yielding; the porch rail marking his staid feet with its bars of shadow and light; the sweet berry smell cancelling thought.

Doyali Farah Islam offers Yusuf and the Lotus Flower (BuschekBooks, 2011) as her first book of poetry. Her poems have appeared in CV2 and Grain, and she was work forthcoming in Kenyon Review Online (Summer 2015). She is the winner of CV2's 35th Anniversary Contest and the recipient of writing grants from Canada Council for the Arts (Grants for Professional Writers), Ontario Arts Council (Writers' Reserve), and Barbara Deming Memorial Fund (Money for Women). From March 2013 to April 2015, she curated and hosted North Bay's Conspiracy of 3 Literary Reading Series.

John Rice

A Poem Is A poem is a may day dawning clear. It's an August thirst quenched by a cold, cold beer. It's ghost stories told by campfire light. It's hot chocolate shared on a winter's night, when a moon blooming pumpkin bright scatters diamonds over fields pristine white. But a poem is more than this. It's the sweet mystery of loves first kiss, an aching tenderness, moments of euphoric bliss. It's sunlight dancing through the leaves of birch, of beach, of maple trees.

John Rice was born in Ontario, and while studying electronics at Northern College of Applied Arts and Technology he was know among his peers as the whiskey poet (which he denies, because at that time he could only afford draft beer) and now he lives and writes in Northern Canada.

Its children's laughter on Christmas morn. Its holding your baby that's just been born. It's the perfume of roses on the wind. It's the beginning of life and also the end. And if you dare to close your eyes a poem will take you far and wide, on a mystical, magical carpet ride, from Eldorado's fabled streets of gold, to the Artic wastes where the wind blows cold. It will take you where whales swim deep, and to mountain caves where bigfoot sleeps.

It will take you to rain forests where rare orchids bloom where lemurs and monkeys, swing high, swing high in the green canopy's gloom, that pierces the bowl of a summer's sky. It will take you from fishing in a quiet stream to your old rocking chair, where you can rest, sleep and dream.

Locate the crickets In my basement throwing their voices cricket match.

Rosemarie Mirfield Rosemarie Mirfield spent much of her life working and playing in the wilderness so she is fascinated by our interaction with nature. She tries to feel it from the other side, and is both inspired and dismayed by the absurdity of the human condition when compared to the instincts and constancy of the natural world. This haiku boils down the experience of trying to locate the crickets so she could rescue them from the damp darkness - every time she thought she had zeroed in on the source of the singing, there was silence, followed by a chorus from the opposite corner. There they go again.........

Clay Campbell has been a writer for most of his life, with short stories printed in many small periodicals. He hosts the monthly open mic writer's event at the Main Library and is a long time member of the Sudbury Writers Guild. He is currently putting the finishing touches on his first novel.

Clay Campbell

Run for the Hills I am here to speak of the coming End day. When the moon turns red as it float by While the stars fall from the sky So listen to what I have to say. Snakes will dance & Fish will Sing Dogs will play poker Cats will impersonate Al Roker and a Hedgehog shall run for the office of King The army's of the Lizard men shall roam the land With guillotines Lazerbeams and tins of overcooked Lima beans The dead shall walk The Antichrist will take a stand Godzilla will fight Gamera off the shore of Japan And Dryers shall return that one missing sock

The endless one rises from the sea The world eater descends from space One shall destroy Milan, the other The African States Together they shall meet in Denmark for some Strudel and Tea I've done the research I know all this to be true. So Follow me or join the dead Oh wait, Forget all that I've just said, I forgot to carry the two.

Greater Sudbury's second-ever Poet Laureate, Daniel Aubin writes and performs poetry in both English and French, often switching back and forth between the two. His books of poems, Plasticité (2004) and Néologirouettes (2012), are published by Sudbury's own Éditions Prise de parole. Having studied theatre at Laurentian University, it's no surprise that Daniel enjoys reading his poems aloud and thusly crafts them with an ear for the musicality of the strung along words. He writes an original poem every week for Le Voyageur newspaper in a column he's titled Primordialogues.

Daniel Aubin

All Dressed and Homemade

do I have all the colors in my eyes or in my head or in the sky where the tree is in its leaves I see three or four of my favorites in easter-pastel marshmallows soaking in a butterscotch concoction the light snow, the cream fudge, and the cookies cooling outside on the family deck as we argue the merits of a green Christmas the sugar falls on the gingerbread men like the salt falls on my stairs to avoid tumbling down I listen to the ice crackle like the audio track for a Netflix fire and I want to start again from the beginning with you focusing on the hearth - or the screen - or the gas stove - or wood - hung-over or stuttering - as it happens I warm up my sense of wonder with Christmas music covered with original NES sound cards I tell you the story about the wise men that jump over bad guys like Mario to meet the little prince it's the best video game ever because my left thumbs don't trip over themselves on the controller in front of my brothers I shop for the every colored stories by computer to make the postman work and spread the salt again the stairs lead up to the toy box and the Christmas coupons signed by some marketing team - "Dear Pizza Lover" I clicked and shared the expiry date for my promises and now I wait for you like we used to wait for church to end

Joshua Rivard- Honorable Mention

My Dreams

I feel like I'm drowning but when I look around me there is no water. I feel like I'm high in the sky. When I'm in a car I feel like a rocket blasting in the sky. When I am really just sleeping. I figure out, that I'm in a dream. When I dream no one can tell me what to do. In my dreams there are no limits, no one can stop me.

Joshua Rivard is a ten year old kid. Joshua was inspired in an English poetry class by a student-teacher who found a type of poetry that he really enjoyed. In his spare time he writes poems for school and for himself.

Lynda Lesny Wind under Wings Irene Golas Mother in the Garden Vera Constantineau Christmas Parade Chris Nash Lines Tom Leduc Old Girlfriend Ashley Laframboise September Doyali Islam Conversation with a bouncer John Rice A Poem is Rosemarie Mirfield Locate the Crickets Clay Campbell Run for the Hills Daniel Aubin All Dressed and Homemade

The Writers & The Writing

THANKS

The name of the eZine, originally produced by Roger Nash, Sudbury’s first Poet Laureate, was suggested by Amanda Turner, a contributing author to the very first issue.

Previous volumes of terra north/nord are available at:

www.sudburylibraries.ca

Honorable Mentions

Josh Rivard My Dreams